


Lovers' Shame

by ellerean



Series: Lovers' Secrets [2]
Category: Free!
Genre: F/M, makoto is still a bad boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellerean/pseuds/ellerean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Was it obvious?” Makoto asked. “W-When . . . it started.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Haru shrugged a shoulder. “You acted different, but I didn’t know why.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Why didn’t you ask?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Haru slipped his hands into his jacket pockets, his voice timid. “I thought you would tell me.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovers' Shame

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Lovers' Secrets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1098463), and while I suppose it could stand on its own there are a bunch of references to the first.
> 
> I blame my lovely fellow makomiho shippers on tumblr for this one. All two of you.

Haru had never talked this much before. Makoto tried to listen as they sat at the table, picking at his mackerel and drinking his fourth cup of tea. In the past, Haru never even remembered when Valentine’s Day _was_ —he’d ask why everyone was wearing reds and pinks as they’d walked to school, and Makoto would only gently laugh in reply. But it was annoying, Haru was saying now, dating a guy. Because whose job was it to bring it up? Did Makoto think Rin was expecting a _gift_?

Makoto couldn’t know. He was surprised that Haru discussed relationship matters with him at all. Because Miho— _Ama-chan_ , he had to call her in public—had broken up with him again, and this time she said it was final.

She greeted him like every other student in homeroom now. There were no longer meetings alone for captain and advisor; the rest of the team was always present. She’d ignored the doorbell last time he’d visited. Perhaps she meant it this time, unlike the two times previously they'd tried to end it.

Haru hadn’t asked. They’d discussed the affair only once, after he’d caught Makoto kissing her at the beach. After that, he was more careful. He’d assured Haru and Rin that it was over. But Makoto wasn’t good at hiding things from Haru—his best friend knew each time the spark was reignited, and each time it was extinguished.

“Makoto?” Haru leaned over the table and poked his arm with a chopstick. “You’re not listening.”

“Sorry, Haru,” he said, rice bowl shaking in his hand. “You should get Rin something if you want to.”

“I guess,” he muttered.

“Do you want me to help? I’ll come with you to pick something out!”

That pacified Haru enough, and shopping for Rin might help the heaviness in his own chest. They took the train into the city the following day, but Haru had absolutely no ideas. They walked around Sports Zero; they walked around the pet shop; they walked around the department store.

“This is all for girls,” Haru said with a sigh, as they left the shopping center empty-handed.

They were silent traveling back to Haru’s house—though Haru was often silent anyway, Makoto wasn’t in the mood to fill in the gaps. When they walked home after disembarking the train, Haru stopped to stare at the ocean. Makoto leaned on the railing beside him.

“Are you still thinking about her?”

Though the February air was chilly, the cold breeze was not the reason for Makoto's shiver.

Haru pressed on. “Do you . . . love her?”

His reply was instant. “No.” How could he compare his infatuation to what he saw around him? To the energy between Rin and Haru, to the way Rei admired Nagisa when he wasn’t looking? Even to the way Mikoshiba hovered around Gou, though it was a little creepy.

“So it was just about the sex.”

“H-haru!”

Haru’s cheeks reddened. Makoto had never asked, but he knew when he’d started sleeping with Rin. The way they acted around each other was different—Rin was gentler, Haru more tolerant of his touch in public.

“Was it obvious?” Makoto asked. “W-When . . . it started.”

Haru shrugged a shoulder. “You acted different, but I didn’t know why.”

“Why didn’t you ask?”

Haru slipped his hands into his jacket pockets, his voice timid. “I thought you would tell me.”

He didn’t follow when Haru resumed walking. Haru paused to glance over his shoulder, but Makoto was transfixed by the crashing ocean waves. He didn’t want to read the disappointment in his expression—the shame of keeping secrets was enough.

Haru was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs the following morning. He gave no real explanation for being early, simply muttering something about getting ready on time. His hair was damp, but at least he’d listened to Makoto and wore a hat.

Iwatobi High School was buzzing with hormones. Girls left decorative notes in their boyfriends’ lockers; even the boys got into it, boasting over whose handmade card was the best. When Haru opened his locker, a red envelope fluttered to the floor. He quickly snatched it up.

Makoto peered over Haru’s shoulder when he lifted the flap, but immediately closed it without reading its contents. But Makoto had spied the circular bulge in the envelope. _“Rin,”_ Haru muttered, shoving it into his bag.

Makoto was more surprised to find a small envelope in his own locker. He froze, staring at the neat, familiar print on the front. But he slipped it between the pages of his classical literature textbook before Haru noticed.

“I have to use the bathroom before class,” Makoto said. “I’ll meet you there!”

“You’re going to be late—”

But he was already waving as he rushed down the hall, against the current of pedestrian traffic.

The boys’ room was empty as the late bell rang. Regardless, Makoto ducked into a stall and fished out the crisp, white envelope. It was sealed only with a pink heart sticker, and he swallowed hard as opened the flap.

His name did not appear on the cherry-scented paper, and it was not signed, but bore only a simple poem:

_Was I lost in thoughts of love_

_when I closed my eyes? He_

_appeared, and_

_had I known it for a dream_

_I would not have awakened._

_—Komachi_

His squeak echoed in the empty bathroom, hands shaking as he folded the letter. Makoto closed his eyes, fighting to steady his breath before rushing to class.

Miss Ama-chan didn’t reprimand him when he arrived late, hardly acknowledging when he skirted into his seat. The scent of cherry perfume lingered on his hands as he waited to meet her eyes, but she’s already turned to the blackboard.

She didn’t address him directly until class was released. “Tachibana-san,” she said, as the class filed out. “Come here a moment.”

He turned to Haru but he’d already reclaimed a seat in the front, intent to wait. Makoto sighed. “Yes, Miss Ama-chan?”

He stood before her desk as she sat behind it, pulling her attendance book from a drawer. Sweat beaded down his neck when she looked up, the flicker of recognition, the brief glance at his crotch before she met his eyes. “I’ll have to mark you down for a tardy,” she said, slowly scaling his body before her gaze settled on her book. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Haru didn’t say anything until lunch, where they tucked away in the corner of the lunch room. “I don’t like the way she looked at you,” he said.

“It’s over, Haru,” he whispered, leaning over his bento.

Makoto left the poem on his desk at home, staring at it when he did his homework. Glancing at it every time he entered the room. He’d long since memorized the lines, reciting them in murmured breaths as he showered. The words were etched on the insides of his eyelids as he tried to sleep; he visually traced them into the dark ceiling as he lied awake. He pulled off his shirt, warm despite the cold air, remembering now the way his clothes had piled at the foot of her bed. The cherry perfume scented everything he touched, it engulfed his entire room. She’d never worn perfume. It was an unfamiliar fragrance but one he could imagine her spritzing on her pulse point, the soft spot on her neck he’d kissed so many times.

Makoto spread a hand over his solid chest. It wasn’t the same—his hand was too large, too masculine—he needed her delicate fingers, her playful touch tracing his breastbone. But his own fingers would do. A shudder ran up his spine as he trailed down his own body, remembering the heat of hers. Remembering the scent of her bedroom, the scent of her sex, the scent of her breath before they kissed. He slipped a hand into his shorts, closing his eyes as he stroked his erection.

She had always felt small and delicate, his arms engulfing her when she sat in his lap, her hands sneaking beneath his clothes. _Miho_ , he thought, remembering the polka-dot bikini, remembering the way he’d tugged at the little ties on the bottoms. He pressed the pillow to his face, gasping for breath, _remembering_. When they reunited the second time, when she’d topped, pushing him deeper inside as he sucked her nipples.

Makoto dug his nails into the pillow as he came, trying to muffle the cries that he so often didn’t have to muffle. He trembled as he cleaned up, softly crying as he buried the soiled tissue in the wastebasket.

Valentine’s Day was a Friday. Haru was “sick” from school; his joint gift with Rin was a weekend away together. Makoto sat in the back of homeroom, watching the shift of Miho’s movements as she taught classic romantic poems. The letter was folded neatly in his breast pocket, right over his heart. When he leaned over his notebook, he caught a whiff of cherry perfume.

“Ono no Komachi is not only one of our greatest poets, but she is also a symbol of feminine beauty.”

Makoto lifted his eyes. He touched his pocket, shifting the paper within.

“This is one of my favorites,” she continued, scratching a poem on the blackboard. Makoto gripped the edge of his desk as she began to write the now-familiar words: _When I was lost in thoughts of love . . ._

She didn’t stop him from rushing out of the classroom. He left his bag, his notebook open on his desk, heading for the only place he could find comfort: the roof. The cold air bit at his exposed skin as he closed the door, crumpling to the ground. He pressed his face to his folded knees, breathing in the frigid air, conscious of the way it wound through his lungs before escaping through his mouth, hot and ragged.

He could transfer. Samezuka wasn’t _too_ expensive. A good education; a renowned swim team. He could be captain when Mikoshiba graduated. He could—

“I thought I’d find you here.”

His head shot up at Miho’s voice; he hugged his knees tighter as she set his schoolbag at his feet. He didn’t ask how she’d acquired his jacket, but didn’t protest when she draped it over his shoulders. She sat down, too close, her warmth radiating.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, pulling his arms into his jacket sleeves. Her hand was warm when she took his; he didn’t pull away when she kissed it.

“You’re freezing,” she said, scooting closer, holding both his hands in her petite ones. She breathed air into them, her lips on his palms.

He kissed her instantly. She shivered against his cold lips but grabbed at his jacket, sliding her arms beneath it and around his waist. Tears stung his eyes as she crawled into his lap, pressing their bodies together, her legs winding around his hips. He whimpered when her hand rested on his belt buckle, but ventured no farther.

“Come over after school,” she whispered.

It had been over. They’d lasted three months, Christmas and the New Year coming and going without recognition. There was no answer when Makoto rang the bell but the door was open, so he let himself in. Last time, she had given him a key. Now, that same key sat on the foyer table, his familiar orca keychain still attached. He passed by without picking it up.

She stood in the kitchen wearing a short silk robe, her sculpted legs pale and smooth. The room smelled of curry and chocolate cake. Miho smiled when she turned around, mixing a bowl of chocolate frosting. When he approached, she dipped a finger into the bowl and held it to his lips.

Makoto watched her eyes as he licked off the frosting, as she pushed the finger into his mouth so his tongue could wrap around it.

“How is it?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

“Delicious.”

He watched as she bent over the oven for the cake, a hint of red lace peeking out from her robe. “It has to cool,” she said, playfully smacking Makoto’s hand when she set it on the cooling rack. Instead he reached for the knot of her robe, his masculine fingers picking at the delicate fabric. His breath hitched when it slid off her shoulders, revealing the lacy, red lingerie. He traced the bra strap, dipping into her cleavage to find the condom hidden within. Miho wrapped both arms around his neck and hoisted herself up; Makoto supported her bottom as he kissed her blindly, dropping her to the countertop to unbuckle his belt.

He had an unfair advantage; she was naked before his shirt was even off, too many layers to his uniform. His pants were only as far as his knees when she sat on the edge of the counter, legs around his hips, ripping open the condom wrapper.

 “Fuck,” he muttered, the word new on his lips, the product of too many conversations with Rin. She giggled, holding his length to guide him in, as if he needed the guidance. Miho groaned, falling into him after the long months of nothing at all. He had to hold back—he couldn’t come right away, though his body tensed and jerked in anticipation. He sucked on her neck, teeth grazing her skin as he trailed downward. He rolled his tongue between her breasts and her fingers looped through his hair, pressing his face to her body, groaning each time his tongue touched her.

When she went taut he couldn’t stand it; he waited for her open mouth on his shoulder, her wet, heavy breath as she dug her nails into his back, screaming into his skin. They released at the same time, her body convulsing long after he’d gone soft, and he slid his fingers between her legs. Her eyes rolled back and her back arched as he pushed in deeper, his thumb gently rubbing her clit.

“No more,” she sighed, gripping his biceps. “I can’t.”

She pulled him into the shower with her. Miho scrubbed down his body, paying special attention to his hands and his groin. She kissed his lips, grinding against him as he stroked her breasts.

Afterward, she made dinner. Miho wore only her robe, Makoto his trousers. He hugged her from behind as he prepared the meal, peering over her head; he couldn’t remember ever mentioning his love for green curry.

His phone rang.

Miho reached deep into his pocket and Makoto squirmed, causing the phone to tumble to the floor. “It’s Haru-kun,” she said, squinting at the display.

He grabbed for it before she could, rushing to the other side of the kitchen as he answered. “Hello?”

“Makoto.”

“Why are you calling me? You’re supposed to be away!” Miho followed, looping an arm around his waist and inclining her head, intent on listening in.

“I am,” Haru replied. In the background, Makoto heard the distinct _flop_ of a body collapsing onto plush pillows. “You told me to call when we got here.”

“You’re just getting there _now_?”

“I forgot to call.” Makoto yelped when Miho slid a hand into the back of his trousers. “What are you doing?”

“S-sorry, I— I tripped,” he said, jerking away as she tried not to laugh. “Thanks for calling. Tell Rin I say hi.”

Makoto frowned when they hung up. Haru sounded unconvinced, and Miho wasn’t helping matters—she snapped the waistband of his trousers, then kissed his shoulder before returning to the stove. He stared at the phone a while before slipping it back into his pocket.

Miho wasn’t a great cook, but he smiled and praised her curry. It felt almost domestic, sitting at the table together over a home-cooked meal. When his phone rang again, she plucked it from his hands as he pulled it from his pocket.

“What if they’re hurt?” Makoto asked, briefly spying Haru’s name on the display.

“If it’s urgent, he’ll leave a message.” She stretched her legs under the table to twine them with his. Haru didn’t leave a voicemail.

“Is it time for cake yet?” he asked, when his plate was cleared, and she smiled before skipping back into the kitchen.

He sat on the countertop, swinging his legs as she iced the cake. It wasn’t a professional job—she used only a dull knife—but she dusted it with pink-and-red heart sprinkles and he told her it looked great. She sat beside him on the counter, feeding him bite-size pieces of cake with her fingers. He chewed slowly, licking the crumbs and icing off her hand each time. He tried to take the plate to feed her, too, but she pulled back, insisting that the cake was only for him.

“I can’t eat all that,” he said, leaning across her lap to cut her a piece. She stroked his shoulder blades as the slice toppled to a plate, then slid her hand to his hip as he set small pieces into her open mouth. She kissed his hand each time—his fingertips, his knuckles, his palm.

Miho took his hand to guide him to the living room, settling down to watch a movie. “Have you ever had alcohol?” she asked, pulling a bottle of champagne from a bucket beside the couch. When he shook his head she poured two glasses, one with considerably less than the other. “Just a little,” she said, passing him a glass. He held it to his nose; the bubbles tickled. It tasted sweet.

“Not too fast!” she said, laughing as he coughed.

When she snuggled into him to watch the film, it finally allowed Makoto an opportunity to watch her. She still wore her robe with nothing underneath, and the hem lifted slightly to reveal the curve of her ass. He slid a hand beneath the robe as she pressed to his chest. He buried his nose in her hair. The cherry-scented perfume was subtle, but its presence calmed him. She stroked his chest, right over his heart; she could likely feel its furious beat.

Makoto poured more champagne, Miho kissing his chest as he leaned toward the table. It was the off-season, and he’d been weight training. She had certainly noticed, spreading a hand over his pecs. She lightly sucked his nipple as he sat back, bringing alive the dormant groan in his throat. He slipped a hand between her legs, exploring her body as they watched the film. She came quietly, smiling as she gripped his torso.

Makoto couldn’t spend the night. He cleaned up the kitchen, wanting her only to sit on the counter and watch. She’d tied the robe’s belt but he tugged at it when he passed; it slipped off her shoulders and left her top exposed. He kissed her forehead as he set the plates in the cabinet above her, and she gently held his face as he kissed down to her breasts.

But he pulled away suddenly, holding the hands that cupped his cheeks. “I can’t keep on doing this," he said. "I can’t.”

“I needed you here for Valentine’s Day,” she said, before kissing the bridge of his nose.

They relocated to the bedroom to make love again, gently but hungrily, before he went home. When she walked him out, Makoto didn’t see the old key ring on the foyer table. He didn’t ask.

His parents had figured out the first time that he was seeing someone, but they received no further details than it was “someone from school.” _They trust me_ , he thought, tiptoeing through the house after his midnight arrival. His mother had left him a small box of chocolates on the kitchen table, an annual Valentine’s Day indulgence. He would typically savor each piece, have it last through the week—assuming the twins didn’t find his stash—but half the box was gone before he’d reached his bedroom. He waited until he’d tucked into bed before allowing the silent tears to drip down his face.

He had two missed calls—one each from Haru and Rin—though the latter had to have been on his way home, as he hadn’t heard it ring. Makoto hesitated before checking his voicemail, more nervous than curious.

Rin hissed into the phone, his voice hushed, obviously calling without Haru’s knowledge. He didn’t even say hi. “I swear, Makoto, if you’ve been fucking that teacher I will never forgive you. You better fucking call Haru tomorrow—and before lunch, because we’re going out and this will _not_ ruin my weekend.”

Sleep was a foreign entity. The moon was nearly full, illuminating his dark room. He kept the phone beneath his pillow, squinting at the poem still lying on his desk. He could see its corner from his vantage point, the paper peeking through the slats of his desk chair.

He must have fallen asleep because he awoke to the twins running down the hallway, toward the scent of breakfast. His stomach turned. He wanted to blame his indigestion on late-night chocolate, but he immediately remembered Rin’s voicemail. Makoto stared at Haru’s name on his phone, hesitating before hitting the call button.

“Hello?”

“Haru!” He sounded too eager. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to make sure everything is okay.”

Haru paused. “Rin called, didn’t he?”

Rin shouted in the background, “You did nothing but bitch about him all night!”

“You were bitching about me?” Makoto whined.

“ _No_.” Haru sighed and Rin yelped as something hit him—presumably a pillow to the face. “I was worried.”

Makoto pulled his blanket to his chin. “Don’t worry about me, Haru. You guys have fun this weekend. Be safe, okay?”

Haru couldn’t see his dejection over the phone. He’d managed to steady his voice, to sound convincing. Rin was muttering in the background when they hung up.

Makoto shouldn’t have returned to the apartment. He couldn’t erase the image of his parents’ faces when he’d left—smiling at each other knowingly, only making him promise to be home for dinner. Makoto felt guilty, too, knowing that his motivation for visiting included not being tracked by Haru. Haru had suddenly become aware of all Makoto’s whereabouts when they weren’t together, constantly calling to ask where he was when away from home. He had never outright forbid him from seeing her, but his revulsion at the prospect was clear each time Makoto was vague about where he'd been.

 _Don’t worry about me, Haru_ , he’d said, feeling the lie stick in his throat as he rang the doorbell. When Miho opened the door—fully clothed, thankfully—she dangled his old keychain between two fingers.

“You forgot something?” she asked, dropping it into his open hand.

He stared at the key, gripping hard to the plastic orca. “I don’t know if I should take this,” he said.

“Come inside,” she answered, lightly touching his back as he passed through the doorway.

Makoto had never been the one to end it. He sat at the table as she went to the kitchen for tea, a now-customary ritual. He scanned the room—she’d finally started to decorate, though there were no personal touches. Generic posters of beach scenes; cityscapes from foreign countries.

He lifted his eyebrows when she returned without the tea tray. Instead she balanced two cups and a bottle of sake under her arm.

“I-it’s the middle of the day—!”

“I’ll make sure you don’t drink too much. I can’t send you home drunk, can I?” She smiled as she twisted open the bottle.

It was a bad idea. But it smelled sweet when he lifted the cup, and it wasn’t too strong when he took a sip. When he went for another, she placed a hand over the top and reminded him it wasn’t water—he couldn’t drink too fast. He flushed as he set down the cup. Miho was already pouring herself another, and he considered the obscure fact that she was able to hold her liquor, that she’d had experience.

He eyed the keychain on the table, at the single key attached. She had given it to him when they got back together the second time. For several weeks her apartment had been his getaway, even if she wasn’t there—sometimes she would be out late, but she was never alarmed to find him sleeping in her bed. He had full reign of the kitchen, of the living room, of her bedroom. He’d fixed the dripping faucet in the bathroom sink. In the warmer months he’d tilled the flower bed in the back, surprising her with a new rose bush and its first blooms in a vase.

“I couldn’t find it when I left yesterday,” he said, staring at the key like it was a foreign object.

“Well, you didn’t take it when you came in,” she replied, her voice small. “I didn’t know if you wanted it.”

He’d blurred the lines of morality long ago, when he’d offered her swim lessons. It had been a surprise to see her in the pool—in a _swimsuit_ —but it also felt like the climax of a play that had no end. He smiled slightly. Her affinity for literature was starting to rub off.

“I don’t know if I should,” he replied, honest with himself for the first time in weeks.

Miho pushed the keychain toward him, unlike the first time she’d presented it to him: Back then, she’d dropped it directly into his pants pocket. “You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. But I want you to keep it. A memento.”

He lifted the keychain, staring at the glint of the key in the light. He took another slow sip of sake. “But does that mean I _can_ use it?”

She threw back her third cup. “Only if you’d like.”

Miho’s cheeks were already flushed—the curse of drinking too quickly, he learned—and she was slow and lazy in her approach, falling into his arms. Makoto thought he’d be uncomfortable around a tipsy quasi-girlfriend, but he smiled down at her as she kissed his jaw, as her hand fumbled with the hem of his shirt.

But he pushed her upright when she tried to unbutton his jeans. “Not if you’re drunk, Miho.”

“This isn’t drunk!” She threw back her head and laughed, and Makoto resisted reaching for the white, exposed skin of her neck. “This is nothing.”

But he laid her down instead and she readily accepted him, opening her knees so he fit comfortably between them. He lifted her shirt to kiss her firm, pale stomach, then unbuttoned her pants and tugged on her lacy underwear with his lips.

Miho didn’t often let him go down on her. She felt _old_ ; she claimed her body wasn’t like it used to be, when she was modeling. But Makoto had seen the magazines—she had eventually relented, letting him admire the spreads. She looked no different to him, the same stomach and the same legs and the same perk in her breasts. Now, she lifted her hips so he could remove her pants, breathing hard before he even touched her. He slowly trailed a finger down her stomach, waiting for her shudder. She held the back of his head as he kissed her slowly, first high on her inner thighs, then the warm, moist spot between her legs.

She breathed his name with each kiss, with each time he pushed his fingers inside. The name alone excited her—he recognized the difference in the way she giggled, the subtle shift from the amused to the aroused. He sucked her lightly, just enough for her breath to hitch, enough for her sake-pinked cheeks to flush a deeper red.

 _Do you love her?_ Haru had asked.

Makoto lost his rhythm. Miho inclined her head when he pulled away, both gasping for breath. He closed his eyes when she stroked the back of his head, twirling the hair at the nape of his neck. He pulled her in again.

He’d long since stopped crying during intimacy, but Makoto had to force down the pain in his chest when her body trembled, when she grabbed the back of his neck. He learned not to stop the first time she cried out, slightly jealous how long her orgasm could last. It wasn’t until she called his name, begging him to stop, that he sat up. She placed a hand on her heaving chest, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Makoto lightly traced the inside of her thigh until she settled down.

He accepted more sake as the sun began to set, and they clinked cups like it was champagne. Miho fumbled hers slightly, splashing sake on her shirt, and Makoto gently pried it from her hands.

“Let me put you to bed,” he said, scooping her up as he stood.

“But I’m not sleepy,” she mumbled, nuzzling his shoulder. She leaned into him, arms still around his neck as he set her into bed. “You’re so nice,” she said, pushing his hair from his eyes. “One day you’ll find a nice girl.”

 

* * *

 

Typically it was Makoto who ventured to Haru’s house, so he was surprised to see Haru and Rin at his door the following day. “Back already?” Makoto said, as he let them in.

The twins attacked the moment they stepped inside, trying to climb up Haru’s legs. Ran gawked up at Rin, then ran away giggling when he grinned at her.

“Come on,” Makoto said, ushering them to the privacy of his room. “How was your trip?”

They didn’t offer many details, besides the Olympic-sized pool at the resort, and Makoto didn’t ask. Rin sat backward on the desk chair; Haru pouted slightly as he flopped on the bed.

“Actually,” Rin said, picking at his nails, “we want to talk to you.”

“Keep it down,” Haru said, glancing at the door.

Makoto looked back and forth between them, but neither met his eyes. He warily lowered himself to the edge of the mattress. Rin stared at the desk, his gaze resting on the poem, before dragging the chair toward the bed. Makoto felt a small comfort when Haru squeezed his shoulder.

It was unnecessary to ask, with the way he avoided their eyes, but Haru did. “You were with her, weren’t you?”

Makoto nodded.

“Damn it, Makoto, I—” But Rin was cut off when Haru gripped his arm, nails digging into the skin. Instead, he sighed. “You’ve gotta stop this.”

Makoto balled the sheets in his fists. He calmed slightly when Haru stroked his back, but still grit his teeth to force himself to stop shaking. When he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “I don’t know how.”

How could he explain the thrill of its danger, the only thing he’d ever acted upon that wasn’t right and true? How could he explain the way she got lost in his arms, smiling up at him before they kissed? The way he knew every groove of her body, every one of its weaknesses to his touch?

Rin took his hand but it wasn’t _right_ ; it wasn’t _hers_. He squeezed hard, crushing Makoto’s bones. “Want me to set you up?” he asked, half-joking. “Hey, you can even ask out my sister, if you want.”

“Makoto,” Haru said, the words warm against his ear, “we’ll help you.”

Rin found an empty shoebox in his closet. Makoto didn’t have many mementos, but Rin and Haru helped comb his room—the poem; loose pages from a swimsuit catalogue; the house key (Haru wouldn’t allow him to keep the orca keychain, not yet). Makoto pretended not to notice when Rin pocketed a box of condoms.

“There’s nothing we can do about _this_ ,” Rin said, holding his classical literature textbook in both hands. “Good thing Haru’s in your class, eh?”

Makoto could only watch as they sealed the box with tape, layer upon layer. They looked away when he hastily wiped his eyes on his sleeve. But to his surprise, Haru hugged him. Even Rin was dumbfounded; Makoto returned the embrace, tentatively, resting his cheek atop Haru’s head.

Rin claimed responsibility for the box, promising to securely hide it at his mother’s house. He wanted Makoto to stay at Haru’s indefinitely, but Makoto convinced him that his parents would find that strange. Rin agreed to only weekends, but made it clear how inconvenient this was for _him_.

“You _just_ said he should stay with me _all the time_ ,” Haru said. Even Makoto chuckled when Rin grumbled under his breath.

It was difficult, at first. Haru followed him around school; he walked him home after. Rin began to text him just to say hi, asked if he wanted to hang out. The three of them would sneak into Samezuka’s pool after hours, eat takeout on Haru’s floor Saturday nights. Once, when Nitori went home for the weekend, Makoto learned the joys of dorm life as he crashed on Rin’s floor, listening to boys run up and down the hall at all hours of the night.

Miho called only once, weeks after he’d packed her mementos. Haru allowed him to answer, but wanted her on speaker.

“Would you like to come over this weekend?” she asked, the sweetness laced with desperation.

“I can’t, Miss Ama-chan,” he said, cringing at her disappointed _“oh.”_

“Haru,” he said, after hanging up, “I should really tell her. Th-that it’s . . . over.”

“I will,” Haru replied.

He didn’t know when Haru had broken the news. It wasn’t during school hours; he was still attached to Makoto’s hip at every possible moment. But little by little, she backed off. She didn’t acknowledge when he entered the classroom. He seldom participated during class, and she made no effort to call on him. She would still pause when returning test papers, taking an exceptionally long time placing his on his desk, but it took only a slight incline of Haru’s head for her to move on. His literature grades had gone back to normal—It had been nearly a year since he’d seen his mediocre scores.

When the cherry blossoms began to bloom, Rin and Haru spent a weekend in Kyoto. It was the first time Makoto had been left alone on a Saturday, but he still spent the hours at Haru’s house. He had to do _something_ for him—he swept out the house, opening the windows to allow a cool spring breeze to rush through. He stocked the fridge with mackerel for his return.

It almost helped to forget about her, to think of her only as a school teacher. Makoto even looked forward to the swimming season again, though she still loomed as club advisor.

His smile felt natural again when they returned to school. Haru showed him photos from their trip as they walked to homeroom. He tried to hide the ones where he was actually smiling, where Rin had held the camera out and snapped the lopsided photos of them himself.

“This one's really nice,” Makoto said, holding up one where they stood beneath a blooming tree, arms around each other’s waists.

“He asked someone to take that for us,” Haru said, blushing as he looked away.

But when they entered the classroom, Haru immediately noticed Makoto’s face pale. Haru gingerly touched his arm, guiding them to their seats in the back. “What is it?” he whispered, pulling his chair closer.

Ama-chan wasn’t in the room yet, but she had been—on her desk, prominently displayed, was a vase of red roses. Makoto gripped Haru’s forearm, fighting to keep his voice calm. “Those flowers,” he whispered. “I planted those.”

They could have been any roses, but they were obviously not from a florist—the stems too short and uneven, the roses in various stages of bloom. Haru narrowed his eyes when Ama-chan strode into the classroom. He coughed, then stood up suddenly when she took her place in front of the blackboard.

“Miss Ama-chan,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t feel well. I have to see the nurse.”

“Oh dear,” she said, yelping when he stumbled into his desk. “Tachibana-kun, please go with him.”

Makoto stumbled, too, as they left the room, the formality of his name echoing in his head. He held to the back of Haru’s shirt as they walked the halls, making sure the coast was clear before escaping to the roof.

Haru stood at the edge, gazing at the pool in the distance. “That’s going to be a pain to clean,” he said, the water dotted with cherry blossom petals.

“Rin will be happy,” Makoto said, before sitting on the ground. Haru collapsed beside him.

“I wanted to give you something,” Haru said, digging through his schoolbag. Makoto froze when he pressed the orca keychain into his palm, the silver key gleaming in the sunlight. “That’s my key,” he quickly added. “I- I’ve started locking up. When Rin’s over.”

Makoto smiled at the tiny orca, rubbing its white underbelly. “Haru,” he said, dropping the key into his schoolbag, “do you love Rin?”

He instantly regretted asking. Haru lowered his head, his hair concealing his face. It was something Makoto was supposed to have known already, he realized with a pang of guilt. “I thought that was obvious.”

His voice was softer. “When did you know?”

Haru watched the tops of the cherry blossoms trees sway over the roof’s edge. Then he reached again into his bag, now pulling out the trip photos. This time, he didn’t glance over the ones of them together—he studied each one, staring longest at one where he didn’t look into the camera, but at Rin.

“A while ago,” he finally said. “Why?”

Makoto stared at the photo, at Rin’s wide-toothed grin beneath the cherry blossoms, at Haru’s faint smile as he gazed at him. “We never talked about it, that’s all.”

“Do you want to talk about Miss Ama-chan?” Makoto nodded, biting his lower lip. “How did it start?”

They sat on the roof until lunch. They ignored their classmates filing in as Makoto talked. Haru interrupted only for clarification, needing to know all the details. But there was no reprimanding, no angry scowls. They remained there past lunch and through the afternoon, long after the school day had ended.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be over this,” Makoto said.

Haru squeezed both his hands, the silent confirmation of a promise. They sat together until the sun began to set, mostly in silence, Haru comforting him the only way he knew how—a hand on his forearm, a slight smile, a closeness that Makoto was starting to reestablish as the definition of love.

“You will,” Haru said.

**Author's Note:**

> ([Here](http://trapsandpecs.tumblr.com/post/74898721224) on tumblr.)


End file.
